


Common Courtesy

by bravebuttercups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Forgiveness, Reconciliation, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravebuttercups/pseuds/bravebuttercups
Summary: Five years after the war, Draco Malfoy is no longer under house arrest and the Malfoy vault is back in his possession. Riddled with guilt, he attempts to atone for his family's sins the only way he knows how - with money. Unfortunately for him, Hermione Granger can't be bought off.





	1. There She Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Aka my redemption for the fic I wrote when I was 13.

Hermione stared at the clock adorning her office wall and sighed, internally begging it to go faster. She knew that, technically, she could use magic to move the hands forward, but she suspected the incredibly dull man in front of her wouldn’t even notice. 

The man - Mr. Smith, if Hermione remembered correctly, and with a dry note that even his name was unremarkable - thanked her for her time and told her that his secretary would be in touch. Hermione had barely mustered up a smile before he was gone. 

“Thank Merlin,” Hermione muttered under her breath, jotting down a brief summary of the forgettable meeting that she was sure was important in some way or another. 

There was a polite knock on her door but Hermione didn’t bother answering, since the person she was expecting was Harry and he never waited for a reply. 

“Did I just see Smith leaving your office?” Harry asked, amusement evident in his tone. “No wonder you look as though you want to crawl into a hole. The man’s a dreadful bore.”

“That’s a rather polite way of putting it,” Hermione said wryly. 

“I almost forgot how grumpy you get when you’re hungry.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and tossed a balled up piece of parchment at Harry, who promptly ducked. “Wanker.”

“Language,” Harry teased, only to be met with another ball of paper. “Now if you’re done being a bully, lunch?” 

“That’d be great. Is Ron joining us?”

Harry shrugged. “I think he’s on a mission right now, actually. Should be back in a few hours.”

“Nothing dangerous?” Hermione asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern. While she and Ron had had a mutual parting, they remained friends, and she still fretted over his well-being. 

“Wouldn’t require Aurors if it wasn’t dangerous,” Harry replied with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, Hermione. Ron can take care of himself, and he has a team with him besides.”

Hermione huffed and shook her head. “You two are going to give me gray hairs.”

“Oh, like the war hadn’t already.”

-/-

Mood significantly improved by good food and company, Hermione walked back to her office. She fully expected to return to another pile of paperwork on her desk and scowled at the thought. While she was truly passionate about what she was doing in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, having to work within the restrictions of the Ministry could be discouraging, and boring. 

She might have been a swot at school, but Hermione didn’t mind breaking the occasional rule, especially if it meant not having to drown in proposed legislation and complaints against centaurs.

Hermione didn’t like it, but she had come to expect it. She did not expect, however, to be greeted with a rather gigantic basket sitting on her desk. 

“What in Godric…”

She cast a quick charm to scan the basket for any curses or hexes and slipped her wand back into her pocket. One could never be too careful, after all. 

“Who would send something as ostentatious as this?” Hermione wondered aloud. It couldn’t have been Harry, whose idea of a gift was a quill and chocolate frogs, or Ron, who always enlisted the help of Hermione for Yule shopping, and there wasn’t anyone else who came to mind that would even think to send a gift to her office. 

Hermione sifted through the flowers, sweets, assorted teas, books, quills, and Merlin knows what else (she suspected the sender had employed the use of an extension charm) before plucking out a card with a victorious smile. Her smile vanished as soon as she saw that the sender had not signed said card with anything as helpful as a name. Instead, it simply read  _ I’m sorry _ . 

How odd. 

“I wonder what the mystery sender is apologizing for.” 

Then again, maybe it had been Ron. They hadn’t ended their relationship on bad terms, but whenever he started dating a new girl, he usually made an extra effort to be a good friend to Hermione. 

Hermione picked up one of the books,  _ Anna Karenina _ , and brushed her fingertips over the cover. No, not Ron, then.

Hermione frowned at the basket. She carefully picked it up and set it down on the floor behind her desk and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. Every so often, she glanced back at the basket, until finally she caved and attempted to use several spells to track down the sender. She had never been able to resist a puzzle. 

Whoever had sent it had good taste in literature, she had to admit. More than that, they seemed to know her fairly well. All of her favorite sweets had been included, as well as her favorite teas (both caffeinated and non). The sender had known that she wasn’t fond of coffee, and partial to sugar quills. Hermione chewed on one contemplatively as she eyed the books. Classics, every one of them, and each one written by a Muggle. Her friends, who she loved dearly, were wonderful, but none of them were avid readers, and they wouldn’t have heard of any of the books that had been sent.

So, not one of her friends.

Perhaps a Hogwarts classmate? A co-worker, even? 

Hermione couldn’t imagine any of the people in neighboring offices caring enough to send a gift. 

Maybe a fan? It was Harry who was primarily in the spotlight, being the Boy-Who-Lived and all, but Hermione had had her share of interviews and lost track of the autographs she’d signed. She did her best to avoid that all now, and the initial stardom that had been thrust upon her had faded a bit over five years, but she still got the occasional witch asking for an autograph from the Muggle-born who helped take down You-Know-Who.

Years later, and there were some who were still afraid to say a dead man’s name. 

It wouldn’t have surprised Hermione if it had been a fan who claimed to know all the intimate details of her life. To the Wizarding World, it was as though her part in the war made her not a person, but a figurehead, meant to be scrutinized and picked apart wherever she went. At least she didn’t have a lightning bolt scar on her forehead - she had never envied Harry that symbol of his notoriety. 

All someone had to do was pick up a copy of  _ The Daily Prophet _ and they’d know what Hermione Granger’s favorite candy was, as well as her favorite color, her current position at the Ministry, the number of O.W.L.s she had and what subjects they were in, and so much more. Hermione didn’t even know how the  _ Prophet _ had obtained some of the information, but she knew from experience how terrifying reporters could be. 

A fluke, then. The gift basket was a one time thing. While Hermione would have liked to know who the sender was, if not just to send a  _ thank you _ card back and possibly inquire about the strange note in the basket, she was content with her conclusion. Hermione leaned back in her chair and finished the sugar quill with a smile, and went back to work.

-/-

“Did she get it?” the pale blonde asked, slipping into his friend’s office and closing the door behind him. 

“I put it on her desk like you asked,” Blaise Zabini drawled, looking up at the intruder with disdain. “Though I’m not sure why you have such a peculiar need for secrecy. If you want to send Granger a gift, send it through the post like a normal person.”

Draco Malfoy scowled and sunk into one of the chairs across from Blaise’s desk. “An owl is traceable. I need to make sure none of this can be traced back to me.”

“May I ask, for what has to be the hundredth time,  _ why _ you are doing this? It’s not as though she’s poor. I’m sure she’s more than capable of purchasing her own tea,” Blaise said sarcastically. In truth, he was far more curious than he ought to be, but he wouldn’t let Draco know that.

“Does it matter why?”

Blaise snorted. “Of course it does, you wanker. Aside from me, people will start to wonder if you fancy Granger.”

Draco blushed scarlet and sputtered. “I do not fancy her!”

“Then you won’t mind telling me why you’re sending her ridiculously large gift baskets,” Blaise said, leaning forward and resting his chin on clasped hands. “Unless you’re trying to compensate for something.”

Draco glared at the other man, a full-time Ministry employee who hadn’t even needed a trial since he’d been determinedly neutral in the war. Draco, on the other hand, had required the interference of  _ Harry bloody Potter _ at his trial to keep him and his family out of Azkaban. He hated being in anyone’s debt, but he especially hated the idea of being a part of Saint Potter’s charity.

“I’m not compensating for anything, you git. I merely feel bad, is all,” Draco muttered miserably. 

Blaise raised his eyebrows. “This doesn’t have anything to do what I told you last week, does it?”

“It has everything to do with what you told me.”

“If I had known it would make you do this, I wouldn’t have told you,” Blaise said dryly. “I doubt Granger wants it to be common knowledge.”

Draco sighed, his eyes downcast as he remembered Blaise’s drunken admission.

_ “You drink like a girl,” Blaise commented, taking a sip of his whiskey as Draco slid onto a seat next to him. “That’s what Granger always orders.” _

_ “ _ Hermione  _ Granger? The Mud - I mean, Muggle-born and insufferable know-it-all in our year at Hogwarts?”  _

_ “That’d be the one.” _

_ “Since when did you drink with her?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the mere thought of associating with a Muggle-born.  _

_ Blaise shrugged. “We work together. Both went back to Hogwarts to finish our seventh years. Got to talking back then, and now we go out once a month to get sloshed and complain about our department.” _

_ Draco let out a disbelieving  _ hmph _ at that, and was only momentarily distracted by the bartender sliding his drink across the counter. “And what, pray tell, did you and Granger have to talk about when you went back to Hogwarts?”  _

_ “I don’t think you want to know.” _

_ “If I didn’t before, I surely do now. Spit it out, you tosser.” _

_ Blaise leveled him with a glare and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Seriously, Draco, some things are better left unsaid.” _

_ “Tell me.” _

_ “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Blaise said, tipping back the rest of his drink. “There weren’t many who went back, you know. For seventh year. The winning side went right out into the workforce, like Potter and Weasley, becoming Aurors or other Ministry workers. The ones who should have been in their seventh year then either opted out or, you know, died in the battle.” They both grimaced at that. War hadn’t been kind to either side. _

_ “Anyways, there were even fewer students who qualified for N.E.W.T. level Potions, and Granger and I were unfortunate enough to be paired as lab partners. I saw the scar one day, the one that your aunt, you know,” a stiff nod from Draco was all the answer Blaise needed to continue, “and when she caught me looking at it, she tugged her sleeve down so fast I’m surprised she didn’t rip the thing. I found her in the library, later, sniffling to herself in a back corner and we ended up talking. She told me she still had nightmares, and to my knowledge, they haven’t gone away since.” _

_ “Why did she tell you, of all people? No offense, but you’re not exactly a witch’s idea of a shoulder to cry on.” _

_ Blaise shrugged again, a careless gesture that did nothing to hide the very real sympathy he felt for Hermione Granger. “Her reasoning escapes me, but I’ve a feeling it has more to do with her insane Gryffindor nobility than anything to do with me.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “It’s not like she’d talk to Potter or Weasley about it. Granger might be a swot, but she’s selfless. Wouldn’t want her friends worrying about her if she could prevent it, and those two idiots would die for her. She’s not close enough to anyone else to have another person to talk to, and she wouldn’t risk a crack in her reputation of ‘Hermione Granger, the brilliant Gryffindor and the glue that held the Golden Trio together in their darkest hour,’’” Blaise mocked with no real malice. “I was dispensable to her. She didn’t care about my opinion and I didn’t give a rat’s arse about her, and I guess that was enough to let her tell me.” _

_ When Blaise looked at Draco, his childhood friend’s eyes were downcast, studying the drink in front of him with more intensity than alcohol warranted. Blaise had known Draco for the better part of twenty years, but he was certain that this was the first time he’d ever seen him look guilty. _

_ “I didn’t know she had nightmares.” _

_ “No one expected you to,” Blaise said, his look turning pitying as he heard the self-loathing in Draco’s words. “There’s nothing you could have done.” _

_ “I could have said something. Done something. Even that stupid Weasley begged to take her place. All I did was watch.” _

_ “You did what you had to do to survive.” _

_ “That doesn’t make it right.” _

“Granger’s proud, you know,” Blaise said, snapping Draco back to the present. “She won’t like the idea of being your charity case.”

“Well it’s not as though I can go back in time and prevent Aunt Bella from torturing her, now is it?” Draco snapped. “For now, this is all I can do.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, money can’t buy forgiveness.”

At the word  _ forgiveness _ , Draco’s defensive posture disappeared, and he slouched in the chair with a defeated air. 

“I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

Blaise studied him for a moment before scoffing. “Don’t you get all melodramatic on me, now. It’s too bloody early in the day for that. Get over yourself, Malfoy. If you feel bad,  _ do _ something about it, but don’t expect to buy your way out of your own self-induced guilt.”

-/-

Hermione pulled the books out of the slowly shrinking gift basket one at a time, slipping them onto her bookshelf according to her sorting system of the month. She ran a finger down the spine of each one, allowing herself to briefly wonder who had gone through the trouble of researching Muggle literature in order to gift it to her. 

The basket as a whole had obviously had so much thought and care put into choosing its contents that Hermione couldn’t help but imagine the sender had been a secret admirer of some sort. Unlikely, she knew, but it was a nice idea to entertain. 

The note fluttered to the ground as she put the last book away. Hermione picked it up, studying the two words written on the card as if they would reveal who had written them. The pretty cursive seemed vaguely familiar, but Hermione went through so much paperwork in a day that she couldn’t possibly identify the handwriting. 

_ Just as well _ , Hermione mused as she arranged the flowers in a vase. This way, she could keep imagining she had a mysterious suitor.

An owl tapped on her window and Hermione let it in, summoning a treat for the animal as it perched on the sill. It was a gorgeous creature, its feathers golden brown and its demeanor rather imperious, even as it accepted the treat and let Hermione stroke its chin.

“What have you brought for me, you beautiful thing, you?” Hermione murmured, the owl preening at her compliment. It waited patiently as she untied the cord securing the package to its foot and flew away as soon as she was done. 

“How odd,” Hermione said to herself. “It didn’t wait for a return note.”

Hermione unwrapped the parcel and gasped. Laying in the paper was a leather-bound copy of  _ Hogwarts: A History _ , a first edition that she had been coveting through the window only a few days prior. She hadn’t been able to justify spending so much money on one book, and had regretfully left the shop behind, but someone must have seen her do so and cared enough to purchase it for her. 

She held the book almost reverently, her touch light as she opened the cover to reveal another card, written in the same hand as the one in the gift basket. 

**_I know this doesn’t make up for it - nothing can - but I can at least try._ **

How very peculiar. 

The gifts were far too personalized to have been sent to the wrong person, so that ruled out a mistake on the post’s part. Hermione hadn’t had any disagreements with anyone lately, and certainly not any that would require such expensive trinkets as way of apology. Still, the sender seemed to think they had something to apologize for. 

Figuring out who the sender was would be difficult without even their initials, but Hermione had always loved a challenge. 


	2. Maroon and Gold

Hermione eyed the invitation in her hand with distaste, its fancy scrawl doing little to dispel the scorn running through her at its content. However, it was not as offending as the personalized note it had arrived with in Kingsley’s script, informing her that as a notorious figure in the war, she was required to attend the annual Ministry gala celebrating their victory over Voldemort. The additional knowledge that she would not have to make a speech as she had during the first gala was only a small comfort, but she was amused at the thought of Kingsley somehow coercing Harry into speaking. 

“A gala? What lucky bloke gets the honor of being your date, Granger?” Blaise asked, plucking the card out of her grasp. It was the last Friday of the month, their designated day for their monthly griping about working within the Ministry, and he was itching to get to the pub. 

“Why, are you interested?” Hermione retorted, smirking at Blaise’s startled laugh. They had been something close to friends for a few years now, but the wizard always seemed to be surprised when she cracked a joke. 

“I’m afraid folks like myself aren’t exactly high on Minister Kingsley’s list of desired guests.” Blaise’s tone was decidedly light, but there was a set to his jaw Hermione had come to be familiar with. Though he hadn’t faced as many repercussions as active participants in Voldemort’s army, his reputation as a Slytherin who had completely abstained from battle was enough for him to be discriminated against. 

Hermione could only offer a sympathetic smile in response. Their friendship was tentative at best, and they tended to stay away from potentially heavy subjects - while they were sober, anyway. 

“Did I tell you about the gifts I’ve been receiving lately?” Hermione saw the flit of gratitude in Blaise’s eyes; he made a good show of not caring what others thought of him, but she knew he felt the sting whenever a stranger called him a rotten snake. 

Blaise raised his eyebrows, resting his elbows on Hermione’s desk and lacing his fingers together. “Gifts? Have you been holding out on me? As they say, sharing is caring and all that.”

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes, even as she opened a drawer and tossed a chocolate frog at Blaise, who caught it with practiced ease. “I’ve been getting something every Monday for the past two months. Sometimes it’s a random assortment of things, you know, something vague that anyone would be happy receiving, but more often than not, the gifts are oddly specific. They’re catered to my taste. It’s rather strange, honestly. I’m not sure how I feel knowing there’s someone out there who refuses to sign their name to a card and yet continues to give me highly personalized presents.”

“A titch creepy, is it?” There was far more amusement in Blaise’s voice than Hermione cared for, and she focused narrowed eyes on him.

“Do you know something?”

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you,” Blaise said, grin cheeky as he watched Hermione’s frustration grow. 

“You’re a menace,” Hermione huffed, standing up and discarding her work robes in favor of a jumper. She ignored Blaise’s not-so-subtle comments regarding a wardrobe update and very politely told him that he could expect to pay for drinks tonight, in return for his snobbery and decision to withhold information, and that she hoped he could still have a good time in such dull company. 

“In that case, expect a few more comments about your mum jumper, since I’m already paying for it.”

-/-

One week before the gala, Hermione took inventory of her closet. While it did include articles of clothing that were far from the ‘mum jumpers’ she was fond of, to her dismay, she didn’t have anything suitable for a black tie event. She could, as a last resort, transfigure something she already owned, but she was fairly certain Ginny would murder her if she found out.

She didn’t resort to murder, but it was safe to say that Ginny was appalled that Hermione was still having wardrobe issues so close to the event.

“We’ll just go shopping, then,” Ginny said, helping herself to a cup of tea upon Flooing into Hermione’s flat. “I could use a new dress, and Harry could stand to get a set of dress robes that aren’t ten years old. We’ll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I just can’t justify shelling out what will surely be a significant amount of galleons on a dress I’ll only wear once. And you know how impractical I find wizarding clothing when Muggle fashion is far less bulky.”

“We could shop in Muggle London,” Ginny offered. “I’ve always wanted to try thrifting.”

Hermione sighed and cast a cooling charm on her tea - Ginny had a tendency to overheat the water. “I’ll figure something out, Gin. Nothing to fret about.”

“You do still want help with your hair though, right?”

“Merlin, yes,” Hermione said, laughing. “You know I can’t possibly tame it without assistance.”

A copy of  _ The Daily Prophet _ appeared on the kitchen counter with a quiet  _ pop _ , GInny promptly picking it up and thumbing through it. “I don’t know why you still subscribe to this rubbish. Try as they might to actually pass off as real journalism, they’re awfully inaccurate with their facts.”

“I’ll say. According to one of the reporters, Harry and I have rekindled our torrid love affair in your absence while you trained with the Harpies,” Hermione said, barely containing her laughter as she skimmed the front page. “I wonder if he’s aware that we’re apparently hopelessly in love.”

Ginny burst out laughing, incapable of containing her glee. “I doubt it, but I reserve the right to tell him!”

“It might be misguided, but you have to admit, the  _ Prophet _ is a good laugh.” Hermione grinned, and when Ginny began to read the sports column with horror at the inaccuracy, her laughter finally escaped her. 

An impatient tapping sounded on one of the kitchen windows, and Hermione looked over to see the tawny owl she had come to expect every Monday, and which always waited only for its treat before it took off again. 

“You’re still getting the mystery presents in the post?” Ginny asked, one eyebrow quirked as they watched the owl leave. 

“Once a week, every week,” Hermione sighed. There were two parcels, this time, one significantly larger than the other and both pristinely wrapped. They were tied together with a maroon ribbon, and Hermione looked for a card in vain. 

“What are you waiting for?” Ginny prompted. “Open it!”

Hermione attempted to send Ginny what she hoped was a quelling look, but the redhead continued to watch her expectantly, so she tore into the brown paper without waiting for another command. While Hermione enjoyed the sound that tearing wrapping produced, after receiving so many gifts and never knowing the sender, she was growing weary of the routine. 

She opened the larger of the packages first, tossing the paper to the side to reveal a plain white box. Inconspicuous enough, surely, but Hermione knew better than to presume that the contents of the boxes would produce anything other than the finest money could buy. 

At least she knew something about the sender - she or he was extremely predictable. 

Upon opening the box, Hermione could only think that her wardrobe problems had been miraculously solved. She carefully lifted the bundle of fabric out, standing up to appraise it in its full glory. 

The dress was undoubtedly gorgeous. It matched the maroon ribbon perfectly, yards of lace and satin that swept the floor when Hermione turned around to show GInny. An off-the-shoulder mermaid gown, it was a touch more embellished and form-fitting than Hermione’s normal taste, but she couldn’t deny that it was beautiful. 

“That dress is  _ stunning _ ,” Ginny gasped, looking to Hermione for permission before tentatively running a hand over the skirt of the dress. “Please tell me you aren’t going to be stubborn about this and actually plan on wearing it to the gala.”

“I’d feel weird wearing something from a stranger to such a high profile event,” Hermione protested, but she held the dress up against her body anyway and twirled around once to see how it moved. 

Ginny rolled her eyes and pushed the second box toward Hermione. “I doubt anything could compare to the dress, but let’s see what’s in this one.”

Hermione handed the dress to Ginny to fold and tuck back into the tissue paper it came in, and set about ripping the paper for the smaller box. Much narrower than the first, the box didn’t offer any information about brand or price, but the red sole of the gold heels inside were more than telling. 

“Isn’t that the trademark of a famous Muggle designer?” Ginny gaped openly, accepting one of the shoes from Hermione with near reverence. “These would go perfectly with that dress. The pointed toe is  _ very _ on trend right now. And you’d be wearing Gryffindor colors, too!”

“Yes, Ginny, because that’s what I’m concerned about,” Hermione said dryly. “I’d at least like to know who this person is and why they seem to know so much about my life.”

Ginny turned the shoe over in her hand, her gaze lingering on the sole. “The dress and shoes are charmed to adjust to your size. That’s pretty impressive magic. So you know that whoever’s sending these things to you, they have knowledge of Muggle culture, they know you’re attending the gala - because I doubt this is a happy coincidence - and they’re a talented witch or wizard. That’s something.”

“I guess.” Hermione worried her bottom lip; the gifts had never been cheap, she knew that, but the combined price of the dress and heels would exceed everything she had received in the past. She might not have followed fashion as avidly as the next witch, but she wasn’t daft, and shoes by Christian Louboutin would put a significant dent in her vault. 

“Hermione, if you value our friendship, do not take the high road and refuse to wear this to the gala. It’d be a crime.”

Hermione chuckled at Ginny’s over-exaggeration, putting the lid on each box with a sense of finality. “With such high stakes, I promise I’ll consider it at the very least.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Ginny tried to insist that Hermione try on the dress, just to make sure the charm worked, and if it didn’t, then she’d have plenty of time to get it tailored before Saturday night. Hermione managed to avoid doing so, claiming that she didn’t want to put it on until she was sure she’d keep it, but in reality, she had a suspicion that once she had the dress on, she’d never want to take it off.

-/-

As much as Blaise enjoyed watching his friend pace in his office, he actually had a deadline to meet, and though he portrayed himself as carefree, he did not want to have a reputation as a slacker. 

“Stop with the bloody pacing, already,” Blaise snapped. Draco stopped, scowling, and began tapping his foot impatiently. “I can’t concentrate when you do that. All I told you was that she’s getting suspicious.” 

“She can’t be suspicious!”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you sent her a Gryffindor themed outfit right in time for the Ministry gala,” Blaise commented, opting to ignore Draco’s sputtering and returning to the task at hand. “You’ve been slipping, mate. Getting a bit enthusiastic in your casual stalking of Granger. She’s not thick; of course she’s noticed by now.”

“I am not stalking Hermione Granger!”

Blaise levelled a look at Draco, one that clearly meant  _ are you kidding me? _ Draco didn’t bother denying it any further; over the past few months, he had ventured into Muggle London on the pretense of escorting his mother on a shopping trip where they wouldn’t attract stares more times than he’d care to admit, and had maybe, perhaps, tailed a certain Muggle-born witch to see what caught her fancy in shop windows, but that wasn’t  _ stalking _ , was it?

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re still at this silly game of yours. I thought you’d give it up after the first week. Why do you care about apologizing to Granger so much when you won’t even let her know you’re the one sending the gifts?” Blaise asked, adding notes in the margins of the report he was working on with as casual an air as he could muster. He was genuinely curious about Draco’s motivation, and knew he wouldn’t become privy to such information if he showed too much interest. 

Draco’s rigid posture vanished as he sagged against the door, running a hand over his face with a sigh. “It helps abscond some of my guilt to send her things. She’d never deign to give someone like me forgiveness, but doing something about it gets rid of some of the gut-wrenching regret I seem to have become prone to in the past five years.”

Blaise set down his quill and shot Draco a pitying look. “You don’t know anything about her, do you? Hermione Granger is by far the most forgiving person I know. She’d forgive you in a heartbeat if she thought you were genuine about it, if only because she’d get the privilege of seeing the great Draco Malfoy apologize.”

“You say that now, but I think it’d take a lot more than an apology for that,” Draco spat, avoiding looking directly at Blaise. “Don’t forget, she’s had good reason to regard me with hostility, and that sort of grudge doesn’t go away with a few pretty words.”

“You were a right tosser when we were teenagers, yes, and I wouldn’t blame anyone for despising that version of you. Even people in Slytherin disliked you then because you were so bloody annoying. But you shouldn’t beat yourself up for what you did leading up to the war - the Dark Lord was in your house, threatening you and your parents, and you can’t punish yourself forever for keeping your family alive. If anyone would understand, it’s Granger.”

“How can you be so sure?” Draco asked, frowning at his shoes. 

Blaise rolled his eyes, the picture of suffering for the greater good. “Salazar, Malfoy, do I have to spell everything out for you? Before she went on a fool’s quest to hunt down and destroy the Dark Lord’s horcruxes, she Obliviated her own parents’ memories and sent them away so that He couldn’t use them against her. You both made choices during the war; whether they were good or not, you did what you had to do and she did the same.” Blaise paused and groaned, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. “Blimey, you owe me a drink for making me go all sentimental.”

Draco didn’t say anything, instead casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Hermione’s office. Though his Mark hadn’t hurt since Potter defeated the Dark Lord, he felt it more strongly than ever. Despite his efforts to conceal it and cover it with clothing, he was always extremely conscious of the constant reminder of the sins he had committed for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

He had instantly regretted confiding that fact in his mother. Narcissa, who had never lost her grace under house arrest, had instead lost the majority of her enthusiasm for each day. She was slowly growing more vibrant over time, but Draco’s confession had been enough to reinstill the somber air that seemed to follow her. 

Narcissa had apologized profusely for her weakness, allowing Lord Voldemort into her home, and more importantly, Lucius’s, whose failures had prompted the Dark Lord into demanding that Draco be branded as well. It had taken Draco well over an hour to get his mother to stop sobbing; when he had been convincing her that he had long since forgiven his parents, it had never occurred to him that he too could be forgiven.

-/-

“Do you have any more sweets stashed in that desk of yours? I’m going to need a pick-me-up to prepare for my meeting with Smith.” Blaise no longer bothered to knock on Hermione’s door, and she wasn’t surprised when he burst into her office unannounced. Unfazed, she looked up with an amused smile, and gestured for him to help himself.

“You’re going to need more than one chocolate frog to get through a meeting with that tosser,” Hermione muttered, stretching her arms out in front of her and pretending not to notice Blaise’s snort at her comment. 

Blaise transfigured one of her chairs into a couch, draping himself over his work with a content sigh. “Today’s Wednesday, Granger. Received anything special in the post lately?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Hermione said, frowning at the thought of the maroon gown hanging in her closet. 

“Pray tell.”

“I never pegged you for a gossip, Zabini.”

Blaise shrugged, nonplussed as he examined a Bertie Bott’s bean and tried to decipher if it was going to be vomit or green apple. “I’m a curious sort. Indulge me.”

“If you insist. This week’s mysterious present was a dress for the gala, and shoes to match.”

“Are they to your taste?” Blaise asked, making a note to tell Draco about Hermione’s hesitant nod. “You’re wearing them, then?”

Hermione huffed; first Ginny, and now Blaise. “That’s the problem, you see. I don’t know if I should wear them or not.”

“Why not?”

“Because! They’re too expensive, for one. Uncomfortable, too, if the silhouette of the dress and height of the heels are any indication.”

“Please. Are you a witch or not, Granger? One charm would take care of both of those problems. You’re not giving me any legitimate reason for making use of the gift. I’ll appeal to you with logic, since that seems to be the only thing that works with you,” Blaise drawled. “If you’re concerned about the money, think about it this way: it’s not as though you can return the dress, so if you don’t wear it, it’ll be a complete waste of money. Might as well take advantage.”

Hermione grimaced, looking for all the world like agreeing with Blaise Zabini would physically pain her. “You make a fair point.”

Blaise’s grin was dazzling. “It had to happen sometime.”

 


	3. She's Not Terry's Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione attends a gala and Terry is grateful that she isn't his sister.

“It needs...something,” Ginny mused, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous, but something’s missing.”

Hermione turned her head to the side; her hair had been wrangled into a low braided bun, courtesy of Ginny and a copious amount of Sleekeazy’s, pinned under one ear with hair grips enchanted to hold throughout the night. Ginny had left a few curls loose to frame her face, and the overall effect made Hermione feel like a princess. 

The thought brought a reluctant smile to her face. A princess, indeed. 

“You mean something like this?” Hermione handed the box on the vanity to Ginny and watched as her friend’s jaw dropped. 

“When did you get this?  _ Where _ did you get this?” Despite her questions, Ginny lifted the gold leaf laurel hair comb out and carefully set it in Hermione’s bun. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“It came in the post this morning,” Hermione said, standing up and slipping her feet into the Louboutin shoes that were not only charmed for comfort, but for balance as well, which she supposed was to accommodate the abnormally high heels. 

“From your mystery suitor, then?” Ginny glanced over her shoulder as she shimmied into her own dress, a Greek-inspired deep plum gown that complimented her red hair. “I thought you only got parcels from him on Mondays.”

“What makes you so sure it’s a man?” Hermione asked, crossing the room to help Ginny zip up her dress. “But yes, the handwriting was the same.”

Ginny opened the door and watched as Harry stumbled back, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he straightened up. 

Harry sighed as both Ginny and Hermione burst into laughter. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to go?” 

“Almost. I was just about to attempt to convince Hermione to show me the note that came with today’s gift,” Ginny said with a pointed look at Hermione, who quickly sobered up under the redhead’s glare. 

“Today’s gift?” Harry repeated, frowning. “I thought you only received those on Mondays.”

“That’s what I said!” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and handed Ginny the note. “Sometimes you two are astonishingly in sync with one another.” Ginny waved her hand at Hermione in an attempt to shush her while Harry leaned over the card so that he could read it as well, both of them squinting to read the cursive script. “Case in point.”

“‘Something fit for the Gryffindor princess?’ Really? That’s what he’s going with?” Harry and Ginny’s expressions were equally disgusted, and Hermione merely shrugged.

“Good taste in superficial things doesn’t necessarily mean good taste in prose,” Hermione said, grabbing her gold clutch from Ginny’s dresser and walking out of the room. 

“I’ll say,” Ginny muttered, completely unperturbed by Harry’s admonishing look. “Come on, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave and see Teddy before Andromeda tucks him in for the night.”

“I didn’t get the chance to see him on Thursday. How was he?” Hermione asked, eyes downcast as she recalled how she had taken the day off work on the actual anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and shut herself in her flat. She had only gone to the Burrow for dinner at Harry and Ginny’s insistence; it was a day to celebrate the memory of those they had lost with loved ones, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

Ginny sighed as she headed for the Floo. “He’s getting older now, so he has more questions, and he has enough of everyone else’s memories by now to miss them, but he’s five, you know? Nothing keeps a five year old down for long.”

“Asking people from the Order to give Teddy memories of Tonks and Remus was a lovely idea, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “It’s good for him to get to know what his parents were like.”

Harry mustered a smile, and though they were technically on their way to a celebration, the trio departed for the gala with a solemn air about them. 

-/-

Hermione blinked a few times, spots dancing behind her eyes at the incessant flashing of the cameras. Five years she’d been attending these Ministry galas, but this was the first year there was a red carpet lined with reporters. She highly doubted it had been Kingsley’s idea, but someone had evidently decided that more press would be beneficial - for what, Hermione had no clue. All she knew was that Rita Skeeter was talking away as her quick-quotes quill scribbled away on a levitating notepad, and Hermione was not pleased. 

She made a valiant effort in keeping a serene smile on her face, but Hermione had never been comfortable posing for cameras, and she kept a quick pace as she walked toward the entrance to the gala. When she got to her self-designated safe zone, she turned around to see how Harry and Ginny had fared, and winced sympathetically when she saw that they had gotten ensnared by a journalist, Harry fumbling for an eloquent sentence and Ginny struggling to keep her expression polite. Ron was nearby, recounting stories about the Triwizard Tournament while his latest girlfriend, Katie Bell, attempted to deflect questions about their relationship. 

“I don’t envy her,” Angelina said, walking up to Hermione on George’s arm. “Thank Merlin George and I have been together long enough that they don’t try to interrogate me like that.”

“Poor thing,” Hermione agreed, turning away from the drama of the red carpet to hug Angelina and George. “You look lovely, Angelina. And George, dashing as always.” Hermione felt something in her chest loosen when George grinned in reply; she was an only child, Harry and Ron being the closest things she had to brothers, and so she found herself constantly concerned about George and his ability to smile again after Fred’s death. If it was difficult for her, it had to be agony for him. But George was a much stronger person than she. 

“I love your dress, Hermione! Where in Godric did you get it?” 

Hermione laughed, her cheeks flushing at Angelina’s compliment. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Merlin, I hate being interviewed,” Harry complained, joining their small group just inside the ballroom. “Why can’t they bloody well leave me alone?”

Ginny patted Harry’s shoulder and passed him on her way to their table. She had heard plenty of his griping already, and she had a feeling she’d need multiple drinks to endure the entire night. Hermione went with her; there was no harm in getting a head start on the champagne at an event as dull as this. 

“Was that Hermione Granger?” Terry Boot watched the witches go, stepping up to stand next to Ron with a glass of firewhiskey already in hand.

“Good to see you, Terry,” Harry said, shaking the former Ravenclaw’s hand briefly. “And yes, that’s Hermione with Ginny. You don’t recognize her?”

Terry shook his head emphatically. “No - I mean, yes, sort of, but she looks different. She never looked like that at Hogwarts, other than the Yule Ball, but she was with Viktor Krum then. A regular bloke wouldn’t have stood a chance. Did she come with anyone tonight?”

“No, but you’d have to have it out with her mystery suitor,” Ron piped up, rolling his eyes. 

“Mystery suitor?” Terry echoed, raising his eyebrows and looking around at the rest of the group for clarification. “She has a mystery suitor?”

“It’s just some bloke - at least, we’re pretty sure it’s a bloke - who’s been sending her gifts recently. She hasn’t the foggiest idea who it is, but she gets something once a week. She gives most of it away, but some stuff she likes enough to keep,” Harry explained. “I think the dress she’s wearing tonight is from the same man.”

“The man’s an idiot for keeping his identity a secret, but he has done the wizarding community a great service by sending her that dress,” Terry said, Harry and George looking at him in disgust. 

“Don’t say that, she’s like my sister.”

“She’s like everyone’s sister!”

Terry shrugged. “She’s not my sister.”

“Okay, Terry, it was nice to see you, but we should probably getting back to our table now. I’ll, uh, tell Hermione you say hello.” Harry nearly ran to the table where Ginny and Hermione were already seated, and waved away their questions with his face still wrinkled in distaste at Terry’s comments. 

They were at one of the head tables, designated for figures in the war and meant to pull in donations to post-war rebuilding efforts. Ginny had offered up one of her old brooms for auction, Harry a Gryffindor shirt he rarely wore anymore, and upon receiving her special edition of  _ Hogwarts: A History _ , Hermione had donated the copy she had used in school. Ron had even given up his beloved Chudley Cannons shirt, albeit begrudgingly. 

Kingsley’s welcoming speech was short and sweet, taking a moment to thank those who participated in helping end the war and remember those who passed away. Several Ministry members stepped up to the platform to speak after him, all of them more dull than the last, but Hermione was surrounded by friends who had no qualms whispering jokes to one another. She wanted to chastise them - they were being horribly rude, after all - but she couldn’t find the willpower to do so when she was making such an effort to keep from yawning. No amount of coffee could combat the sheer boredom that had overcome Hermione. 

“Harry’s just informed me that Terry Boot was asking about you,” Ginny whispered, leaning over and using her hair as cover to hide the fact that she wasn’t paying a bit of attention to whoever was currently speaking. 

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “The only time I ever talk to Terry is at this gala. Why in the name of Merlin is he asking about me?”

“Probably because you look absolutely killer in that dress,” Ginny suggested, her grin wide even as she absentmindedly clapped along with the rest of the crowd. “Can you blame him?”

“Stop it,” Hermione admonished lightly, blushing again. “As much as I genuinely enjoy talking to Terry, I’d rather not have to evade his attempts to ask me on a date.”

“Why?” Ginny asked, her tone and eyes innocent. “What’s wrong with Terry asking you out? You’re single, he’s single...unless, of course, you don’t  _ feel _ like you’re single.”

“Why wouldn’t I feel like I’m single? I am single.”

“Maybe you feel like you’re in some sort of bizarre, quasi-relationship with whoever’s been sending you presents. Don’t hit me,” Ginny added quickly as Hermione’s eyes widened. “I’ll hit you back. Anyway, my point is, maybe you’re starting to develop feelings for the man who sent you that dress.”

Hermione scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ginny. How could I develop feelings for someone if I don’t know who they are?”

“No idea. I do know, however, that you keep every single note he sends you.”

Hermione was starting to wonder if she could hurt herself by rolling her eyes too much; it was something worth looking into. “I do that to study the handwriting. It’s one of my only clues about who the sender is.”

“Yeah, that’s the only reason why,” Ginny said dryly. 

“It is! Don’t be silly. Besides, almost every note includes an apology, and I detest the thought of a man - or woman - hiding behind expensive presents and anonymous notes instead of apologizing directly.” Hermione frowned, her eyebrows drawing together in frustration. “Not that I know what they’re even apologizing for.”

“Honestly, Hermione, you might never know. I know you can’t resist trying to crack a good mystery, but perhaps you should let this one go, lest you get too drawn into it and forget that there are perfectly suitable men just dying to go on a date with you.”

Hermione snorted. “Because every little girl dreams of ending up with someone who’s ‘perfectly suitable.’”

“You know what I mean,” Ginny said, leaning over to nudge Hermione’s shoulder with her own. “Terry hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you all night, and he’s certainly not trying to stay anonymous. Forget about your mystery man for one day and have  _ fun _ for Merlin’s sake.”

Hermione sighed, worrying her bottom lip as she avoided answering the obvious challenge in Ginny’s words. She let her gaze drift to Terry, seated at a table full of former DA members and seemingly bored out of his wits, but whose face broke into a wide grin when he noticed she was looking in his direction. Hermione averted her eyes quickly with a shy smile of her own, but the damage was done, and when Terry asked her for a dance just a few minutes later, she couldn’t think of any reason to say no.

-/-

Blaise handed the paper to Draco silently, settling back into his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. He started counting in his head, and right when he got to  _ five _ , the reaction he’d been eagerly anticipating burst forth.

“Bloody hell.”

“Come again? I didn’t catch that the first time. What were you saying about not fancying Granger?” Blaise smirked as Draco flipped through the  _ Prophet  _ with an enthusiasm that would have normally mortified him. “There are more pictures of her at the gala on page six.”

Draco looked up long enough to glare at Blaise before turning his attention back to the paper. The headline was obnoxious, to be sure - who had decided that  _ Hermione Granger Stuns Without Magic  _ was a print worthy title? - but there was no denying that Harry Potter’s irritating sidekick had looked gorgeous at the Ministry gala. 

Draco cleared his throat and set the paper back down on Blaise’s desk with more force than the simple task could ever require. “I - wow,” he stammered, ignoring Blaise’s chortling. “What I mean to say is, I have good taste, if I can make even Granger look good.” 

“Nice save, mate.” 

The door to Blaise’s opened just enough for a petite witch wearing an ill-fitting maroon jumper embroidered with a  _ H  _ to slip through. “Okay, I know we normally go out on the last Friday of the month and this week is only the second, but I had a hell of a weekend and I just got ambushed by a bunch of wankers who demanded meetings with me this entire week and I am going to need to get sloshed if I survive them all,” she said in a rush, her words stringing together as she checked to make sure no one had seen her before quietly closing the door. Blaise could see the moment Hermione realized Draco was in the room when she turned around, her eyes narrow and her lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded him with disdain. 

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Hermione said stiffly, studiously avoiding looking in Draco’s general direction. “I wasn’t aware you had a visitor. I can come back later.” She moved to leave, but Draco was already out of his chair. 

“I’ll go,” he muttered, the trademark sneer Hermione remembered from her school years remarkably absent. “I’m supposed to have tea with my mum anyways. I’ll talk to you later, Blaise. Granger.” Draco Disapparated without further preamble, leaving Hermione to stare at the spot he had been occupying in confusion. 

“He didn’t need to leave. Harry was right - he is over-dramatic.” 

“I know he’s a prat, but he is one of my best mates, Granger,” Blaise said, his tone more amused than anything, though Hermione could detect a hint of genuity behind his words and tilted her head to the side in an unspoken question. Blaise merely shrugged; he wasn’t vocal about it, but ever since the war had ended, he had become fiercely protective of Draco Malfoy - there weren’t many who knew exactly what the son of Lucius and Narcissa had endured, and Blaise had made it his mission to make sure Draco didn’t slip into the abyss without anyone noticing. 

Hermione considered Blaise’s admission, fighting the anxiety threatening to resurface at seeing Draco Malfoy again. The last time she had seen him, she had been testifying against his father, Harry testifying for Draco and his mother in an attempt to get them a milder sentence. Before that, she remembered Draco during the Battle of Hogwarts, a mere shell of a man - a boy, really, because they had been just children when they had had to fight for their lives - haunted by the ghost of a tyrant who had planned the slaughter of half of the wizarding population from within Malfoy Manor. And then, even further back, Hermione remembered Draco with horror on his face, frozen in his place among his fellow Death Eaters as Bellatrix Lestrange used the Cruciatus curse on her, her screams falling onto deaf ears as the word  _ Mudblood _ was carved into her arm.

_ It was five years ago, Hermione. She’s dead, and you’re stronger now _ , she reminded herself sternly.

“Alright,” Hermione agreed hesitantly. “I promise not to badmouth him too much in front of you. He might be a bully and a racist, but he’s nothing compared to his father.”

“I know Lucius isn’t what one might refer to as a ray of sunshine, but I’d love to know what he did to earn your ire.”

“What didn’t he do?” Hermione bit out sarcastically, not feeling the slightest bit guilty at being glad Lucius Malfoy was locked up in Azkaban indefinitely. “He terrorized young children and helped bring Voldemort back to life. The man is demented. Do you remember when the Chamber of Secrets was opened?”

“Of course. Everyone thought someone from Slytherin was to blame.”

Hermione shrugged apologetically and plowed on. “Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have been petrified by a bloody basilisk if Lucius Malfoy hadn’t slipped one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes to an innocent eleven year old girl that resulted in her being possessed by a madman.”

“What eleven year old girl was that?” Blaise asked, trying to ignore the shudder threatening to pass through him at Hermione’s casual confession that Draco’s father had been solely responsible for the terror that had spread throughout Hogwarts during their second year. 

“Ginny Weasley,” Hermione said, rather indignantly because really, how had Blaise missed the biggest news of the school year? 

“Harry Potter’s wife? Oh, shite.” 

Hermione was looking at him like he had grown another head, but all Blaise could think of was how Draco’s list of people he had to apologize to was rapidly growing, and how he would have to be the one to tell him. 

 


	4. Wand Down, Granger

Hermione liked to think of herself as a perceptive sort. It was certainly an accurate statement; she wasn’t called the ‘brightest witch of her age’ for no reason. Even so, the identity of the gift sender continued to elude her.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

“A funny thing happened the other day,” Ginny said, passing Teddy to Hermione and smiling at the laugh that her friend was able to elicit from the five year old. “I got a parcel in the post, with a note apologizing but no signature. I’ve seen enough of your notes to recognize the mystery bloke’s handwriting, so I thought it was a mistake, but then I opened it and figured it couldn’t have been for you.”

“Why?” Hermione laughed as Teddy changed his hair to match hers, the sandy color disappearing in favor of brown curls. He grinned back, perfectly content to sit in her lap and read while his surrogate mum and favorite aunt talked about boring adult nonsense.

Ginny slipped out of the kitchen and came back with a broom - Hermione hadn’t any clue about the model, but it looked nice, for a flying death trap.

“Oh, no, definitely not for me,” Hermione said quickly, attempting to ignore the way GInny burst into laughter at the horror on her face. 

“It’s the newest model - so new, in fact, that I don’t believe shops are allowed to market them yet. They’re only available if you have enough money, and even my teammates have to wait to get their hands on one. Whoever sent this has serious influence.”

Hermione turned the card around in her hands, Teddy’s chubbier ones reaching out to trace the letters. 

“Pretty,” Teddy commented before going back to his book. He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to learn the fancy writing until he was ten; that’s what his dad told him anyway, whenever he visited Harry at work.

“I suppose I’m just a bit confused,” Hermione said. “Whoever’s been sending the gifts obviously has reason to apologize to both of us, or at least they think they do. Now I’m more certain than ever that it’s not a mysterious suitor. Who would feel as though they needed to try and buy both of us off?”

Ginny shrugged and set the broom down on the kitchen counter. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, but I for one don’t particularly care. Whoever it is, I’m keeping the broom.” She grinned and high fived Teddy, whose smile vanished when he was informed that he would not in fact be testing Mum’s new broom out by himself, or at all, for that matter. 

When Hermione Flooed back to her own flat, she regarded the week’s basket, sitting atop her dining table, the penmanship perfect as always. The baskets were steadily becoming increasingly intimate, if that was the correct word to use, and Hermione’s instinct insisted that despite her suspicions, the sender lacked any malicious intent. It was certainly off-putting receiving such personal gifts from someone who insisted on keeping their identity secret, but there was a distinct lack of alarm bells going off. 

She held the card in her hand for a minute, studying the words with the barest trace of a smile on her face.

_ In the hopes that this makes you smile after a difficult week.  _

Wait a minute. 

How did the sender know she’d had a bad week?

-/-

“Are you the one who’s been sending me gifts?” Hermione demanded, slamming the card down on Blaise’s desk with half a mind to hex him right there and then. “Has this been a fun little game to you, listening to me tell you all about them and the mystery suitor and play along while I tried to guess his identity? What did you hope to gain from this, Zabini?”

“Whoa, whoa, wand down, Granger,” Blaise stammered, hands in the air and his usual nonchalant air nowhere to be found. “What are you talking about?”

“Your note? You finally made a mistake and let it slip that you talked to me on a daily basis.”

Blaise started at Hermione in disbelief, then down at the note, and back at Hermione. It would have been rather comical if she hadn’t been so irate. 

“Hermione, I didn’t write this.”

“Of course you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Look.” Blaise held up a piece of parchment with his handwritten notes from a meeting, the messy scrawl far from the distinct calligraphy Hermione had come to associate with her mystery suitor.

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Please. You could have easily enchanted a quill or hired someone to write the notes for you.”

“Granger, what was in the basket?”

“Excuse me?”

“What was in the basket?”

“Why are you asking me? You already know what was in the basket. You sent it.”

Blaise leaned forward, his folded arms resting on his desk as he smiled sweetly. “Indulge me.”

“Romance novels, mostly,” Hermione said, uncertainty creeping into her voice. “A few mystery and historical fiction books I’d been eyeing the other day while shopping.”

“Do I seem like the kind of bloke that would send  _ books _ whilst trying to woo someone?” Blaise drawled, posture much more relaxed once he realized he’d won his case.

Hermione deflated, her shoulders slumping as she slid into one of the chairs across from Blaise. “No, I suppose you’re right. Sorry I threatened to petrify you, take your wand, and leave you to fend in Muggle London by yourself.”

“Uh, you mentioned none of those things.”

“Well, sorry for considering it.”

“Apology accepted. I think,” Blaise added, making a mental note never to anger Hermione Granger again. 

“Besides,” he continued, “you’re not my type. No offense intended.” So much for his plan to not poke the dragon. 

To Blaise’s intense relief, Hermione snorted. “None taken. You’re not exactly my type either.”

Blaise arched an eyebrow. “Really? Then what, pray tell, is your type?”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Zabini,” Hermione warned, her eyes narrowing into a glare.

Blaise shrugged, grinning as he pushed the note back towards Hermione. “It was worth a shot. But now that you know your mystery suitor isn’t me, do you have any more theories?”

Hermione huffed and shoved the card back into the undetectable pocket she’d sewn into her work robes. “I was so quick to assume that it was you that I didn’t bother to consider anyone else. It’s obviously not Harry, or Ron. It’s not Terry.”

“Terry Boot, the stuffy Ravenclaw? How do you know it’s not him?”

“I went on a date with him after the gala, and after only a few minutes, it became very apparent that he did not know me well enough to be the one sending the gifts,” Hermione said.

“Was there a second date?” Blaise asked, briefly entertaining the thought of a jealous Draco. 

“No, there wasn’t. The entire time I just felt...off,” Hermione admitted, remembering the pit in her stomach that would not disappear no matter how enjoyable she found Terry’s company to be. 

A knowing smirk crossed Blaise’s face. “Is it possible that you felt guilty while you were on the date because you fancy your mystery suitor?”

Hermione Granger excelled in many fields, but masking her emotions was not one of them. She blushed scarlet, sputtering as she angrily tried to deny Blaise’s accusation. “I do not fancy him! I don’t even  _ know _ him!”

“If you say so, Granger.”

-/-

_ Granger thought that I was her mystery suitor and was more than ready to leave my helpless self to the vultures. Do something before this is all blown out of proportion. _

Draco groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he tossed the note from Blaise out the window. He should have stopped to consider the consequences before he had sent Granger the latest basket, but he had been so pleased with himself and his stealthiness, so caught up in his game of trying to one up himself, that there was the slightest chance that he maybe, possibly, subconsciously left a clue in his card that would bring Hermione closer to discovering that her mystery suitor was him.

Of course, he knew why Granger could never discover that it was him. She hated him, loathed him even. And why shouldn’t she? Draco had bullied her for years, taunted her and called her racist names, made her feel like she was  _ less than _ all because of her blood status. In the end, it hadn’t even mattered, because she was the Muggle-born savior of the wizarding world while he was the pureblood Death Eater pariah. 

He would have hated himself, too.

But it wasn’t fair to Granger to keep her guessing, wondering who was sending her gifts when Draco had no intention to reveal himself. It was time for him to stop and remove himself from the situation before things got escalated, and he became even more emotionally attached than he already was. 

It was comforting to know that he had something in common with Granger, at least. They both had an astonishing hatred for one Draco Malfoy.

“Darling, come have tea with me in the garden.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “Of course, Mother. I’ll be right down.”

His mother’s garden was as lovely as ever, the flowers enchanted to bloom without regard for their respective seasons. It was easily Draco’s favorite part of the manor, if only for the sole fact that it wasn’t actually part of the manor. 

“Stop scowling, dear. You’ll wrinkle.”

“Sorry, Mother. The roses are absolutely beautiful and the tea is excellent, as always, though neither can compare to you.”

Narcissa smiled winsomely. “Charming as ever, just like I raised you to be.”

“I only wish everyone saw me the way you do,” Draco said quietly, sipping his tea and carefully averting his eyes from his mother’s face. 

“They will, in time. Human memories are fickle - the judgment will pass before you know it. It’s difficult to believe that it’s already been five years since the war, and yet the ministry has just thrown a gala in honor of the anniversary. Time will continue to pass just as quickly.”

Draco made a disbelieving noise, adding an apologetic grimace when Narcissa tutted at him.

“You’ll understand more when you have children of your own. The years seem to fly by, and they grow up before you can pause to notice. Take Edward, for instance.”

“Who’s Edward?”

“Your cousin Nymphadora’s son with that dreaded werewolf. I suppose he goes by Teddy. He’s probably showing signs of magic now.”

“I wasn’t aware that Nymphadora had a son. You don’t speak about Aunt Andromeda’s family very much.”

“No, but I’ve been meditating on it recently, and I think I should like to attempt to mend the bridge with my sister, so to speak. After losing her only child and her husband, it would do Andromeda some good to be around her family, and I would like to get to know my grand-nephew as well.” 

Draco set his teacup down and reached across the table to take his mother’s hand. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Mother. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

“You’ve already done more than enough, my sweet boy.”

Narcissa smiled and squeezed Draco’s hand before prattling on about what wizarding high society must be like with her absence, and what girls must have debuted by now, and speaking of the lovely Astoria Greengrass, did Draco still keep in touch with her?

Draco did, in fact, still talk to Astoria, and even her sister Daphne, on occasion, but he was quick to assure his mother that those relationships were strictly platonic. When Narcissa began to entertain the idea of her son getting engaged to Astoria and giving her perfect pureblood grandchildren, Draco paled, and desperately tried to ignore the wrench in his gut when he attempted to think of a single bird he’d be interested in courting and could only picture a frizzy-haired, formerly bucktoothed Muggle-born.

-/-

The following week when Monday came around, Hermione found herself incapable of concealing her shock at the lack of a parcel in her office or her flat. As unbelievably embarrassing as the admission was, she had come to look forward to unwrapping the gift from her mystery suitor and attempting to discern any clues she could from the attached card. 

Maybe it was for the best that he had decided to give up on her - Hermione was obviously driving herself insane, and she had no doubt in her mind that she was annoying all of her friends with her talk of the suitor. 

She had nearly resigned herself to the fact that she’d never figure his identity, already in her pajamas and reading one of the romance novels she had received when she heard a tap on her window. 

The speed at which she scrambled out of her bed and to the window would have normally been mortifying, but there was no one around to bear witness, save for the silent owl that was patiently waiting for her to give it a treat. 

There was no package, and as Hermione weighed the envelope in her hand, she suspected that she was on the receiving end of more than just a short note this time. 

She waited until she was settled back on her bed to tear the ribbon off of the letter, her hair messily wrapped into a bun and pinned in place by her wand as she reclined against her pillows. The handwriting was the same as ever, and the sight of it alone was enough to make Hermione smile.

_ Hermione, _

_ I can only imagine how curious you must be about who I am, or perhaps you couldn’t care less. I know if it were me, however, I’d be dying to know. _

_ This is incredibly selfish, but I cannot reveal my name to you. I am far too ashamed, and know that if you were to know who your ‘mystery suitor’ was, you would only react in disgust. I apologize for prioritizing my own peace of mind, but the thought of you destroying the gifts while picturing my face is too awful to bear.  _

_ I do want you to know, however, that when I started sending you these gifts, my only thought was to atone for my sins. I never intended to become as emotionally involved as I am, and once I realized how deep it went, I knew it could no longer continue, for Hermione Granger would never look twice at someone like me.  _

_ Instead of a name, I will leave you this one last gift, and hope that you will continue to think of your mystery suitor fondly. I know I shall do the same for you. _

_ My sincerest apologies, but I cannot in good conscience drag you down with me, so to speak. Take care, Hermione. _

_ Deepest regards, _

_ Your Mystery Suitor _

Hermione stared at the letter in disbelief, her eyes falling on the necklace carefully secured to the parchment. It was a dainty, silver thing, and when she lifted up the chain, a delicate clamshell pendant swung above her mystery suitor’s parting words. 

The game was over, then. He was removing himself from the equation before she even got to know his name. 

She read the letter a second time, and then a third, and even a fourth. She grabbed the quick quotes quill from her bedside table and started making a list of clues that the writer had unwittingly given her in the letter, and gathered all of the previous cards from her desk in case she had previously missed something. 

The mystery suitor obviously knew what her Patronus was - the necklace was far too personalized for him not to know, but that didn’t mean anything. All of the members of the Order knew that Hermione Granger had an otter as her Patronus, as well as countless others who had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He was incredibly self-deprecating. Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy for him, no matter how frustrated she was that he insisted on keeping his identity a secret. She knew what that was like, that built up regret and self-loathing that no amount of therapy could rectify. She was regaled as a war hero, and yet there were still days when she had to call in sick to work because she hadn’t slept, far too caught up in memories of friends lost, constantly wondering if there was a way she could have saved at least one of them and then hating herself for thinking about saving one over another. 

He knew she had a temper, but that wasn’t hard to figure out, either. Hermione wasn’t proud to admit it, but her temper had become rather infamous, both at Hogwarts and at the Ministry. Between the Marietta Edgecombe incident and the way she frequently stormed in and out of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office, witches and wizards alike had learned not to cross paths with an angry Hermione Granger. 

None of these things were enough for her to figure out who the writer of the letter was, but there was something niggling the back of her mind. She hadn’t forgotten the last note she’d received, the one mentioning the bad week she’d had, and she could only recall mentioning that to Blaise.

But Blaise hadn’t been the only one in the room.

 


	5. The Mystery Suitor

Hermione Granger had many flaws. 

These flaws included, but were not limited to, stubbornness, pride, her insistence to do everything by the books unless breaking the rules suited her own agenda, self-righteousness, and her ability to hold grudges. She was defiant, and often times blunt to a fault. She hated to talk about her emotions but pushed her closest friends to share theirs. She could be a hypocrite, and she knew it, too, and continued to make and break resolutions to try and amend parts of her behavior. 

Hermione was not, in short, the most forgiving person Blaise knew - not that she knew that he believed this, let alone voiced this sentiment aloud to one Draco Malfoy.

She had been thinking about Draco Malfoy a lot lately.

It had been a few days since her shocking realization, and not for the first time, Hermione was struggling to come up with the best course of action, for one of her other flaws was acting rashly and she was determined not to make a fool of herself.

Hermione was angry, and hurt, and so she wanted to hurt Malfoy just as badly, but how could she hurt someone she didn’t even know? And of course, there was Blaise, to whom she had just promised she would try and think kindly of his best mate.

Well, thought Hermione, that was a promise she would have to be okay with breaking. 

It was a lovely May Saturday, which only frustrated Hermione all the more, for if  _ her _ mood could only be described as stormy, shouldn’t the weather have the decency to match? She was being perfectly unreasonable, as well as wallowing in self-pity for being tricked into thinking she might fancy her mystery suitor -  _ ha _ \- and so Hermione sent her Patronus out to her closest friends in the hopes that they might be able to help her figure out what to do next. 

Not ten minutes later, Harry and Neville were in her flat, wearing matching frowns, but Hermione refused to explain why she had wanted them to come over until Ginny finished Quidditch practice and joined them. 

“What’s wrong? I came as soon as I could,” Ginny said, carefully setting her broom down and peeling off as much of her practice gear as possible without scandalizing Neville. Her eyes roamed over Hermione in an attempt to assess if her friend was injured, but since the other witch seemed physically fine, she allowed herself to relax. 

“She insisted that we wait for you to find out,” Harry sighed, sitting up a bit from where he’d been slumped on Hermione’s couch to greet his wife. “Neville and I’ve been here for an  _ hour _ .”

Ginny raised her eyebrows and helped herself to a butterbeer. “‘Lo, Neville. Happy to be back for summer holiday?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Neville admitted. “Two years I’ve been teaching at Hogwarts now, and I still can’t bring myself to call Professor McGonagall by her first name, or any of our old professors, really.”

Harry grimaced. “Considering their names include Minerva, Filius, and Horace, I don’t blame you, mate.”

Hermione cleared her throat pointedly. “May I remind you that I called you all here because I had an emergency?”

“Are you hurt?” Ginny asked.

“No.”

“Is someone else hurt?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you planning on hurting someone?”

“Maybe.”

“Is it illegal?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do they deserve it?”

“Definitely.”

“Can I help?” 

“Why do you think I asked you here?” Hermione retorted, her mouth twitching up into a smile at Ginny’s questions. 

Harry had waited out Ginny and Hermione’s weird exchange patiently, and merely shrugged when Neville attempted to ask him what was happening, but he was the type who preferred to get to the point and gently reminded Hermione that she had not yet told them why they were there. 

“I’ve figured out who the mystery bloke is,” Hermione explained with little preamble. (That was another one - tact. For the most part, she lacked tact completely in unprofessional settings.)

“I think we may need to amend your definition of  _ emergency _ ,” Harry said dryly. 

Neville and Ginny snorted, but Hermione wouldn’t let herself be bothered. It was, she admitted, rather silly, but she was too conflicted over her discovery to care. 

“Who is it, then?” It was Neville who asked, leaning forward and looking far more interested in the revelation than anyone in the room would have expected. He couldn’t help but notice, and adopted a defensive tone. “What? Teenage drama is boring - there’s no mystery to it. I can easily tell you that half of the current couples will break up before term starts, which is why I haven’t bothered drafting up any partnerships and won’t until I figure out who can’t stand to work together, but I honestly have no idea who the mystery bloke could be.” 

“It’s Draco Malfoy,” Hermione announced before anyone else could intervene with a monologue of their own. 

“Are you  _ sure _ ?” Ginny exclaimed, just as Harry held his hand out and said, “Pay up.”

Hermione gaped as Neville and Ginny both groaned and rummaged around in their pockets, only to each place twenty galleons into Harry’s waiting hand. 

“How in the name of Merlin did you know?  _ I _ didn’t know!” Hermione stammered as Harry grinned victoriously.

“Call it a lucky guess.”

Ginny gave Harry  _ the _ look.

“Plus, I overheard Zabini telling Malfoy that he had to be more careful or else you’d figure out his identity.”

“That’s cheating!” Ginny complained. “I want my money back!” 

“I can’t believe you three were betting on who it was and didn’t tell me!”

Neville shrugged unapologetically. “George started it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Hermione sighed. “Remind me to hex him later, yeah?” Ginny was the only one who took up that promise. 

“So, Malfoy is your mystery suitor,” Ginny said, mouth twisting in distaste at the name. “Do you think he was playing some sick game, or do you think he  _ fancies _ you? Merlin, can you imagine?”

“All I can imagine right now is how I’m going to make his life miserable in retaliation.”

Ginny was already coming up with an elaborate practical joke on Malfoy, deep in thought about what would cause maximum humiliation - something to do with ferrets, she definitely had to include ferrets - and Neville was making suggestions, but Harry seemed a little more hesitant.

“Why are you so quiet, Harry? I would have thought you’d be the first to want to get back at Malfoy for the hell he put everyone through at school,” Hermione said. 

“He was a bully, that’s for sure, and a right sodding git, but I don’t think this was a game to him, ‘Mione. You don’t walk out of a war unaffected, and you saw him at his trial. He was disgusted at himself, at the Death Eaters, and…”

“Harry, what?”

Harry winced and reached up to scratch the back of his head, a reflex Hermione had come to associate with him being acutely uncomfortable. “No one is supposed to now this, but there was recently a very generous anonymous donation to Hogwarts and St. Mungo’s. The only reason I know is because Kingsley thought I had made it, but it’s no coincidence that this happened around the time Malfoy gained possession of his family’s vaults again. I know it was him.”

Hermione and Ginny glanced at each other briefly, and neither one had to speak to know that they were thinking of the same thing - Harry’s sixth year obsession with Draco Malfoy (or, as Ginny preferred to say, his crush on the stupid Slytherin). 

“But how can you be sure? The timing is convenient, yeah, but it doesn’t seem like Malfoy to be generous. Hogwarts I can understand, but why St. Mungo’s?” It was Neville who expressed these doubts, and Harry’s hand went to the back of his head yet again.

“Well, Nev, y’see...uh...the donation was made to St. Mungo’s, but with a condition. The person wanted over half of the money to go to a certain ward.” Harry paused, but Neville had not seemed to have caught on, so he continued. “The ward your parents are in.”

It was as though the remaining pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place, for Hermione, at least. 

“He’s trying to make himself feel less guilty, isn’t he? His aunt,” for she still could not bear to say her name out loud, “ _ tortured _ me and Neville’s parents, and his father is the reason Ginny got possessed, and he’s trying to use his money to make up for it. What a load of  _ bollocks _ .” 

That was another thing about Hermione - she swore, a lot. Call it a side effect from being friends with Ron and Harry for so long. 

“If he thinks he can  _ buy _ forgiveness, he has another thing coming to him,” Hermione continued, walking the short distance from her living room to her kitchen and back again. “Draco bloody Malfoy, who does he think he is? Does he think I’m that cheap, that a few  _ gifts _ would be enough to erase all the  _ hell _ his family has put me through? How  _ dare _ he?”

“I’m the last person to defend Malfoy, or even attempt to understand his thought process, but he did all of these things anonymously, Hermione. I don’t think he was looking for credit. He just wanted to do something. It was misguided, yes,” Harry amended quickly as Hermione glared at him, “but I don’t doubt that his intentions were as good as a Malfoy’s can be. Maybe cut him a little slack, yeah?”

A braver man wouldn’t have cringed at the full force of Hermione’s glare, but Harry hadn’t lived this long without figuring out the difference between being brave and being stupid.

-/-

That Monday, Hermione marched into the Ministry of Magic with one sole purpose: confront Blaise Zabini. 

Her plan, however, was not her department head’s plan, if the stack of paperwork on her desk was any indication. She groaned at the sight of it, sinking into her office chair without even bothering to take off her cloak. Blaise poked his head in and, upon seeing Hermione looking at her work as if it offended her, laughed. 

“Alright there, Granger?”

“Don’t, Zabini,” Hermione said wearily, rubbing at her forehead. “Don’t think I don’t know the part you played.”

“Played in what? Are you drunk?”

“You can tell your mate Malfoy that candy and books do not make up for years of racial slurs and literal torture,” Hermione snapped, because Blaise had known the entire time, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t said a thing. “I thought we were genuinely friends, too, which is why this whole thing infuriates me so much. I didn’t think you two could still make me feel as unbelievably stupid as you did when I was a third year. Merlin, what I would give to be able to punch Malfoy in the face again.”

Unnoticed by Hermione, Blaise had gone unnaturally pale. “Granger, I never intended for you to feel stupid, and we  _ are _ friends.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Are we? If we were actually friends, you’d have told me it was Draco sending me gift baskets over a month ago. Instead, you kept quiet and reaped the benefits.”

“Hermione, we’ve been through all this before. Believe me, I would’ve told you myself, if only to see your reaction, but - well, you understand loyalty, don’t you? You’d die for Potter or Weasley. I’m not saying I would die for Draco, but he rarely asks anything of me, and he practically made me make an Unbreakable Vow that I wouldn’t tell you it was him. We weren’t taking the mickey out of you, I swear.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Hermione said stiffly. There was sincerity in Blaise’s eyes and voice, though, and that was shocking enough to make her reconsider. “But I suppose you aren’t totally at fault. You’re paying for drinks for the next  _ year _ , Zabini.”

Blaise grinned. “Whatever you say, boss. Now cough up some of the chocolate frogs I know Malfoy sent you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but complied, and somehow managed to convince Blaise to help her with her paperwork even though he had come into her office to avoid his own. For all her faults, the witch could be extremely persuasive. 

“You’re rather bossy, you know,” Blaise said, but it was without any malice. 

Hermione snorted, completely undisturbed by this observation. “Bossy or not, I get things done, and that’s what matters, is it not?”

“Practical.”

“That’s what I like to think, yes.”

“You’re an odd bird, Granger.”

“You’re no normal bloke yourself, Zabini.”

“We’re quite the unusual pair, aren’t we?”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” But Hermione had cracked a smile, and that was all Blaise was trying to achieve. 

“Let’s go out for drinks tonight,” Blaise suggested, face lighting up at his newfound, ingenious idea. 

“It’s Monday,” Hermione pointed out, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “We always end up extremely hungover, which is why we go out on Fridays. Why do you want to go out to a bar on a Monday?”

“Can you honestly tell me that after everything that’s happened, you don’t feel as though you could use a stiff drink?” Blaise asked, his tone wry as he watched Hermione try and suppress a grin. 

“Fine,” Hermione conceded, not looking at all bothered by the thought of going out drinking on a Monday as opposed to a Friday. “But you better show up to my office with a strong hangover potion tomorrow.”

-/-

“Would you care to explain why you’ve dragged me out to a Muggle pub on a Monday night?” Draco asked, sliding onto the barstool next to his oldest friend. 

“Please, it’s not like you have any plans lined up tomorrow.”

Draco rolled his eyes and ordered a drink. “Perhaps not, but why were you so vague over the Floo? Not that I need an excuse to get sloshed, mind you. I made the mistake of showing my face in Diagon Alley and got called a ‘traitorous, evil Death Eater and a plague upon wizarding kind’ at least three times.”

Blaise winced. In all of his imaginings of how this scenario would play out, he had counted on Draco having stayed at home the entire day and simply being desperate for company. Why hadn’t the fool been a recluse when Blaise needed it the most?

He was about to suggest that maybe the two of them pack up and go back to Blaise’s flat instead, for he had excellent whiskey there, and he was already coming up with excuses to send to Granger when, of course, the aforementioned witch decided to make her presence known. 

Hermione had frozen at the sight of Blaise and none other than Draco Malfoy sitting at the bar, and spared a second to be grateful that she hadn’t shown up to the pub in jeans and a jumper for once. It shouldn’t have mattered to her whether or not Malfoy saw her in sweats or the simple blouse and skirt she happened to be wearing, but she supposed that on some level, she had thought of her mystery suitor with something like fondness, and these things were not so easily forgotten. But that didn’t matter, really, because Hermione suddenly found herself with an excellent opportunity and no idea whether or not she ought to take it. 

“Oi, Granger!”

Too late.

“Zabini,” Hermione sighed, walking up to the wizards without glancing at Draco, whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of her. “What are you playing at, here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blaise replied, the picture of innocence as he handed Hermione her usual drink, which she downed in one gulp. “Slow down there, love. The fun’s just starting.”

“Don’t push your luck,  _ mate _ .” Hermione had her back to Draco, with no intention of turning around any time soon, so she did not see the way he stared at Blaise in disbelief at having the nerve to call  _ Hermione Granger _ ‘love’ to her face. That was something that Gryffindors with death wishes did.

“I knew I should’ve stayed home tonight,” Draco mumbled, knocking back his own drink. 

Blaise ordered Hermione another drink and placed his hands on the witch’s shoulders.

“Granger. We’re friends, right?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“And you trust me, right?”

“I have never said that, nor do I expect to in the foreseeable future.”

“Good enough for me!” Blaise said, grinning as he forcibly turned Hermione around so that she would have to face Draco. “Git, Granger, I believe the two of you already know each other, although you, Granger, might know the git better as your mystery suitor, and you, the git, might know her better as the bird you’ve been stalking for the past few months. You should chat!”

“I’m going to  _ kill _ you, Zabini,” Hermione said through a forced smile, stepping back on Blaise’s foot and ignoring the yelp omitted by her so-called friend. 

“This is completely mortifying,” Draco was saying, obviously stunned as he took in the scene  playing out in front of him. “You were never supposed to find out.  _ Salazar _ , this is humiliating.”

All thoughts of revenge had flown out of Hermione’s mind, replaced by one question that she rather wanted the answer to. 

“Why?” 

“Why’d I do it?” Draco confirmed, avoiding eye contact. Today would be the day that his eloquence eluded him. “Er, to apologize, I suppose. To make myself feel better, obviously. But mostly, I felt...bad.”

“You felt bad.”

“I felt guilty,” he amended, gaze completely focused on his shoes as he spoke. “You’d suffered a lot during the war all because you’re a Muggleborn, and most of it by my family’s hand, so I felt guilty.”

Hermione stared at Draco in disbelief. “You’re daft.”

Behind her, Blaise snorted, but Draco had looked up sharply at Hermione’s words and was, rather intelligently, waiting for her to continue. 

“You think I blame you for  _ that _ ? You’ve got to be the most idiotic person I’ve ever come across.  _ You _ are not to blame for your batshit crazy aunt torturing me in your family home,  _ you _ are not to blame for an entire movement wanting to purify wizarding society of anyone like me, and I am most certainly not going to forgive you for something you aren’t guilty of,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. Draco had barely started to relax when she kept speaking. “That is not to say that you don’t have anything to be sorry for, mind you, and you should definitely feel guilty, but not about any of that. What you  _ should _ feel guilty for, and what anyone in their right mind would blame you for, is the fact that you made every single day of Hogwarts a living hell for me and my friends.”

Draco’s mouth had started to open, ever so slightly, and Blaise considerately reached over Hermione and shut it for him. 

“Let’s start with first year, shall we? We’ll go in chronological order. In first year, you bullied Neville mercilessly and made anyone who wasn’t a pureblood feel inferior because of their blood status. In second year, your father gave Ginny Weasley a cursed book that resulted in her being possessed by Voldemort,” it did not go unnoticed by Hermione that both wizards flinched at the name, “and almost resulted in Harry dying. Oh, and, let’s see, you called me a Mudblood, so there’s that. In third year, you were, in short, an absolute arse, and you kept on trying to get the only decent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor we had  _ fired _ . Shall I continue?”

Draco swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No, I, uh, remember.”

“Cheers,” Hermione bit out. 

Even Blaise seemed surprised by Hermione’s outburst, but Hermione wasn’t done yet. 

“You don’t need to go searching for my forgiveness for what happened during the war, Malfoy, but you are a bully. Always have been, always will be, and I will not forgive you for that.” Hermione left, then, leaving two stunned wizards in her wake. 


	6. Hoo, Hoo

“I was not expecting that,” Blaise announced, barely flinching when Draco turned and punched him in the arm. 

“Really? And what  _ were _ you expecting, tricking me and Granger into being in the same room as each other?” Draco snapped. “Blaise, this is exactly why I didn’t want her to find out!”

“Cut yourself some slack, mate. You apologised.”

“About the wrong thing,” Draco protested. “She was right. I was apologising about everything I did for You-Know-Who, when I should’ve been apologising for the way I made her life miserable from the moment she set foot in Hogwarts.” 

Blaise shrugged, nonplussed. “So apologise for that.”

Draco stared at the other wizard in disbelief and ordered another whiskey. “Do you honestly believe that she’d hear out anything I have to say after tonight?” 

Blaise remained silent, which was uncharacteristic in itself, until he said, “Might as well give it a try. Honestly, what’ve you got to lose?”

What  _ did _ Draco have to lose?

Well, there was his dignity to consider, but that had practically flown out the window with his owl Archimedes when he had first started “stalking” Granger, as Blaise so charmingly put it. While Draco truly believed that Hermione Granger was more than capable of surpassing all expectations, he didn’t actually think that she could hate him anymore than she already did. Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know where she worked, but he could only imagine how it would look if he showed up to her place of employment and Flooed home with tentacles and boils and Merlin knows what else. 

At the heart of the matter, Draco was afraid of what else Hermione could say. He was afraid to hear all of his deepest insecurities and regrets hurled at him in that accusatory tone of hers, brown eyes blazing with fury and wand pointed at his throat, ridiculously curly hair made even bigger by the magic threatening to burst out of her surprisingly tiny frame. (And, at a later time, when he was not quite so self-deprecating, he would mention to Blaise that he suspected that at  _ least _ 10 centimetres of Hermione’s height could be credited to her hair, and the two would take it upon themselves to test this theory and find a way to stealthily determine whether or not they were right. But that was not for quite some time yet.)

Draco loathed to admit this to even himself, but he had begun to regard Granger with great affection, and seeing her look at him with such undisguised hate hurt more than he’d have ever anticipated. 

He went home that night, waving away Blaise’s drunken reminders not to off himself, and lay in bed desperately trying to banish any thoughts of Granger from his mind.

He failed miserably. 

Unbeknownst to Draco, Hermione was attempting a similarly difficult task in her flat, rereading the same line of her book over and over again, for she found herself unable to absorb the words floating on the page in front of her. She hadn’t been able to say everything she’d wanted, but she had seen the impact her verbal assault - for that was what it was, really - had on Malfoy. If it had been anyone else, she might have felt bad, and while yelling at him had been surprisingly cathartic, underneath the thin veil of satisfaction, she was still humiliated. 

Even after eighteen years, Hermione could picture the face of her first bully with extreme clarity. At five years old, Hermione had not understood the significance that belittling Emily Abelev for not knowing how to read chapter books would have on her social life, or lack thereof, and therefore spent the entire first year of primary school completely friendless. Upon discovering that she was magical, Hermione made a promise to herself to not let anyone make her feel so inferior again. She’d thought that, being Muggle-born, her immense knowledge of wizarding society and spellwork would impress those that she wished to befriend, but she’d merely been called a know-it-all and had, until Halloween night, been almost entirely alone. 

Hermione was traumatised from her encounter with a troll, of course, but knowing that she’d made lifelong friends in Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had more than made up for it. 

And then, in second year, none other than Draco Malfoy had spat the word  _ Mudblood _ in her face. 

She had known about the slur, for Hermione was nothing if not informed, but she hadn’t expected any of her classmates to say it, and she certainly did not expect them to say it to her face. It was an awful, awful thing to be called, no matter how little she thought of Malfoy at the time, and, much like the face of her first bully, Hermione could remember the way the tears had rolled down her cheeks with extreme clarity. 

She ran a finger across her scar almost absentmindedly. It was one of many, but it was certainly the only one that woke her up screaming in the middle of the night. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly low, she could still hear Bellatrix Lestrange’s manic laughter. 

This, Hermione reminded herself as she closed her eyes and tried not to shudder, was exactly why she would have nothing to do with Malfoy and his lackluster attempt at an apology, but why the necklace he’d given her remained untouched on her nightstand while the other gifts had been anonymously donated to reputable charities, she didn’t spare a second thought. 

-/-

“How’s it going, ‘Mione?” A mop of red hair appeared in the door to her office, closely followed by a lanky body drowning in Auror robes. Ron grinned, gently shutting the door behind him and settling into a chair across from Hermione.

“Hullo, Ron,” Hermione said, trying to muster up a smile. She was genuinely glad to see him, for it had been ages since they’d last had a chance to really catch up, but she wasn’t feeling well-suited for company at the moment.

“Harry told me what happened, with Malfoy and all.”

Despite herself, Hermione struggled to fight back a grin. “Straight to the point, as always.”

Ron shrugged and returned Hermione’s smile, which had somehow managed to break through. “Life’s short. Why bother dancing around something when we both know why I’m here?”

Hermione laughed; leave it to Ron to be unexpectedly philosophical. Satisfied with her reaction, Ron continued. 

“Want me to hex him? I mean, I know you’re fully capable and probably much more creative than I am, but I’ve learned a few interesting curses during my time as an Auror.”

Hermione shook her head, because while she had spent no short amount of time thinking of how good it would feel to turn her wand on Malfoy, the thought of Ron doing the same thing bothered her. “No, don’t hex him; just promise to teach me those curses one day. Could come in handy some other time.”

“What about Zabini?” Ron offered. “I know you’re mates, but I doubt he was innocent in all this.”

“Zabini is never innocent,” Hermione pointed out dryly. “But I can’t fault him for this. He was just trying to be a good friend to that scheming, slimy git.”

“Aw, Granger, I’m touched,” Blaise said, smirking as he slipped into Hermione’s office. “Weasley.”

“Zabini.”

Ron managed not to squirm for a solid thirty seconds before he rose from his chair. “I should probably get back to work. Mad-Eye’s harsh enough as it is. I’ll pop by your flat sometime this week to catch up. Come by the Burrow for dinner this Sunday, ‘Mione?”

Hermione smiled and nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Right then,” Ron said, stooping to kiss Hermione’s cheek before giving Blaise a curt nod and taking his leave. 

“Merlin, I thought we’d never be alone.”

Hermione tossed a bit of balled up parchment across the desk, which Blaise expertly dodged. “Oh, stuff it, you wanker.”

They chatted amicably for a while, but there was only so much to say when the two of them worked a few doors down from each other and had gone out to a pub just the previous day. Blaise, to his credit, tried to avoid making Hermione uncomfortable, with little success.

“He  _ is _ sorry.”

Neither had to mention a name to know to whom Blaise was referring.

“I’m sure he is,” Hermione said tersely. 

“And not just about, y’know, all that Death Eater stuff.”

“Could have fooled me,” Hermione muttered, filling out paperwork as though Blaise wasn’t even in the room. A smarter wizard would have followed her cues and dropped the subject, but Blaise hadn’t been Sorted into Ravenclaw for very good reason. 

“He’s sorry he bullied you and Potter and all of them, Granger. Truly.”

Hermione slammed her quill down onto the table but refused to meet Blaise’s eyes. “Funny; I didn’t peg you as an owl, Zabini.”

“Hoo, hoo.”

“Very funny.”

“I certainly thought so.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced at the clock; for once, time was on her side, and since it was her lunch hour, she started gathering her purse and robes to leave. Finally recognising the lost cause in front of him, Blaise sighed and surprised both Hermione and himself when he reached out to grab her hand. 

“Hermione, just, please, hear him out. For me.”

“He’s not waiting in the corridor, is he?” Hermione asked warily. 

“No.”

A pause, and then -

“Fine. But only because I sincerely doubt that he has the nerve to show his face in front of me ever again.”

“That makes two of us,” Blaise mumbled, but Hermione was already gone.

-

Draco Malfoy was not, in fact, waiting in the corridor outside of Hermione’s office when she went to lunch. He was, however, waiting in the corridor outside of her flat when she Flooed home and she opened the door, fully expecting to see the takeout delivery man on her doorstep and was instead greeted by an oddly remorseful Slytherin. She felt oddly self-conscious standing in front of Malfoy, dressed in Muggle attire (especially summer clothing), but she’d take that over having to explain to a stranger why she felt the need to wear oversized robes in her home. However, she did wish that she’d chosen not to wear old shorts and a tank top, with only an open men’s shirt - one that she’d filched from Ginny, who no doubt had stolen it from one of her brothers or Harry - as additional coverage, for there was something about Malfoy that made her feel exposed, which in turn caused her stomach to churn uneasily. 

“Before you slam the door in my face -” Draco started, and while it was for naught, he should have considered himself lucky; Hermione had been mere seconds from grabbing her wand and casting a  _ Silencio  _ charm.

Hermione busied herself with preparing a nice, hot cup of tea, but even she could not ignore the sharp knock on her door every few seconds. 

“Granger.”

_ Knock _ .

“Granger.”

_ Knock _ .

“Granger.”

Hermione found herself counting to five, and when a knock did not come, she slowly allowed herself to relax.

_ Knock. Knock _ . 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Hermione swung the door open to reveal Draco with his fist poised in the air, ready to knock on her door again, mouth agape as he barely avoided hitting Hermione in the face. 

“You are annoyingly persistent, and I am only going to say this once:  _ Go. Away. _ Before I find myself in an uncharitable mood and you no longer have the option of  _ walking _ .” Those words, uttered quietly and with little inflection, paired with a serene smile, could have easily frightened even a Dementor, in Draco’s opinion. 

“I thought Blaise made you promise to hear me out,” Draco blurted, barely repressing the urge to clap his hands over his mouth after he did so. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something about Hermione Jean Granger that made him act like a bumbling, immature fool. 

“Way to make your case, Malfoy.”

“I’m sorry. I know I’m making a right mess of this, but that’s only because -,” Draco paused, quickly deciding that blaming Hermione’s attire for his inability to think was not a very good idea, and changed tactics, “- because I know that nothing I can say can make up for what a sodding git I was to you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she put her wand in the back pocket of her denim shorts and waited for Draco to continue rambling. 

“I’m sorry for hexing you and taunting you about your appearance. I’m sorry I helped Umbridge terrorise the school as part of the Inquisitorial Squad. I’m sorry I belittled you any time you showed how much of a damn good witch you really are. Most of all, I’m _ sorry _ for calling you a...well, you know...and I’m sorry for making you feel like you didn’t belong at Hogwarts because of something as insignificant as your blood status, because you sure as hell deserved to be there as much as the next witch or wizard, if not more.” There was more to be said, of course, but Draco was worried that if he carried on, he’d only make a fool of himself, and having said his piece, he heaved a sigh of relief and turned to walk away. 

“Is that it?”

He froze and, without facing Hermione, nodded. With his back to her, he couldn’t possibly see the way her stony expression had softened imperceptibly, and she felt it was rather a good thing that he didn’t, for he was pushing his luck as it was, and didn’t need any encouragement. 

“Right, then,” Hermione said thoughtfully, and that was all she said to Draco before quietly shutting the door to her flat. 

If Blaise noticed the way Draco ranted about Muggle clothing and  _ why couldn’t she have been wearing robes _ for a week after, he wisely did not say a word. 

-/-

“How’d he look?” Ginny asked from her perch on Hermione’s kitchen island. “Malfoy, I mean. If memory serves right, he wasn’t too bad-looking at school - for a pretentious git, that is.”

Hermione laughed and finished plaiting her hair back. “The same, I suppose. Skinny, pale, tall. There was something different, though.”

“A better haircut?”

“No,” Hermione hummed. “He wasn’t as haughty. He looked genuinely remorseful in the bar and when he showed up outside my flat like some bloody stalker.”

“He sort of  _ is _ a bloody stalker,” Ginny observed, swinging her legs as she levitated her cup of tea towards her. “Let’s not forget that he must have followed you around Diagon Alley and Muggle London to figure out what to buy you, or that seashell necklace you’re so keen on hiding.”

Hermione had been in the middle of drinking her own tea when Ginny spoke, and promptly sputtered and coughed into her mug. “How do you know about that?” she exclaimed, hand automatically flying to the chain around her throat. 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You’ve never been a very good liar, ‘Mione.” At Hermione’s indignant expression, Ginny amended her statement. “When it comes to your mates, anyway. You’re absolutely rubbish at hiding your feelings; like Mum always says, you wear your heart on your sleeve. Or, in this case, your neck.”

“If you say so. I’m just not really sure where I’m supposed to go from here.”

Ginny slid off of the counter and onto the stool next to Hermione. The former had always been rather good at reading people, even those who weren’t as much of an open book as Hermione, so it wasn’t difficult to see that her friend was more conflicted than she was letting on. 

“It sounds to me like Malfoy said his piece, apologised, and left the metaphorical Quaffle in your hands. It also sounds like you’ve already decided what you’re going to do, but you’re letting your own guilt and pride stand in the way,” Ginny said quietly.

Hermione sighed and set down her mug to rub her face with both hands. “I want to forgive him, I do, but for  _ years _ he made me feel worthless, dirty, unwanted, out of place, and all because of my blood status. He hated everything I stood for and I absolutely loathed him. What does it say about me if I’m willing to forget all of that because of a single apology?” 

Ginny hesitated, not wanting to get this wrong, but while Hermione had always been known as the one who had a way with words, the redhead was not lacking in eloquence herself. 

“Hermione, you have the biggest heart I know. Even when you hexed Marietta Edgecombe, you weren’t doing it out of petty spite; you were only doing it because she’d betrayed your friends and your trust. I won’t deny that I think Malfoy is an arse, but I think he’s an arse with a guilty conscience who’s trying to make up for his past. And, who knows, in another world, I could’ve turned out exactly like him.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Not in any universe would you have turned out like Draco Malfoy.”

“Maybe,” Ginny replied calmly. “But I am a pureblood, and I come from two families that are a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. If my parents hadn’t been blood traitors and members of the Order, if they’d lived up to their lineage and cared about etiquette and propriety and connections, I would have been raised to believe that Muggle-borns had no place in the wizarding world. I, like Draco, would have been raised to believe in pure-blood supremacy, that somehow my  _ blood _ made me special and better than anyone else. I’m not excusing his behaviour in any way, but like it or not, Malfoy grew up to be exactly what his parents moulded him to be.”

“When did you get so bloody wise?” Hermione asked, smiling despite herself. “I never thought I’d see the day where Ginny Weasley would defend Draco Malfoy.”

Ginny snorted, and the look she shot Hermione could only be described as droll. “I am not defending the twat. I’m merely explaining his psyche.”

“Even better,” Hermione said, now grinning as she evaded a swat on the arm from Ginny. “And mind you, I’m only going to say this once, but you’re right. I think I understand Malfoy now, and I do forgive him.”

“But?”

“How did you know there’d be a but?” Ginny merely shrugged mysteriously, and so a chuckling Hermione continued. “ _ But _ he’d be better off forgetting about his affection for me, or whatever he said in his letter, because the day I start to fancy Malfoy is the day hell freezes over.”

It was all Ginny could do to keep from laughing, but she managed to stave off throughout the rest of her visit with Hermione. When she went home to Harry, however, and recounted her conversation with their friend, the two of them had almost immediately placed bets on how long it would take for Hermione to begin to reciprocate Malfoy’s feelings. 


End file.
